


cabin fever THIS, punk

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Series: the hot mess [3]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Cold Weather, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, LONDON IN MID-JANUARY BRO, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Modern AU, a hell LOT of cuddling, bloody stupid shenanigans, john has insecurities, paul has a mascara mishap (if you wanna call it that)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-10-07 07:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 13,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: a month after Christmas:John bets everyone to stay in the SUPER FUCKIN' COLD flat, or else. although he has no idea what or else means. let's get back to that later.





	1. john and paul crash starrison's date

**Author's Note:**

> i realise only now that i haven't given John a proper POV. 
> 
> rEGARDLESS, this fic fixes that. enjoy <3

London's winters are romanticised shite. Paul's pretty face glares at John, at their house outfits of layered sweaters, then at John again.

"Take a picture, dear," he chuckles, fixed on his Carroll. "It'll last longer-"

"Turn on the heater."

John rolls his eyes. "Absolutely not."

"I'm freezin' to _death."_

" 'nother jumper should do it?" 

"I'm wearing all the jumpers I have!" Paul groans. "Turn on the heat!"

"Say please."

_"Please."_

John leans over the table, stopping as his nose brushes Paul's. 

"Expensive."

"Wha-?" Paul whispers. 

"I said," John starts, but then cracks up. A slight smile escapes the corner of Paul's mouth. "I said it's _ex-pen-sive_ , and you-" a kiss to Paul's lips "-are a princess indeed."

"And like every other princessy lass," Paul replies unamusedly, "I have my right to be warmed. What's a little money? What 'bout the fees we got from the Christmas gigs?"

"Which, my dear, called for three shows," John says matter-of-factly. "Which we _would've_ done if Ringo hadn't decided to join George in sickness and in health."

 _"Ohhh,_ right." Then Paul's eyes widen. "Waitaminute! _You_ gave Geo food poisoning! And then you gave it to _me!"_

"Ah ah ah- don't talk 'bout the past! 's bad luck. New year, new me; all that shit."

Paul rolls his eyes. John adds: "Also, I haven't baked _any_ cookies since last year."

"Good! How expensive is the heater anyway?"

"Two-thirds of what we got from the Christmas gigs," replies John. "The problem is that _that's_ all we got from the gigs."

"Oh?"

"Of course, Macca. We're the _reason_  why the Cavern still affords the London rate. They can't get away with a free Beatles show, dontcha know?”

"Of course I know," Paul mutters indignantly. "So... no heater?"

"Nope," John says nonchalantly. His hand goes to cup Paul's cheek. "...but we can cuddle."

Paul raises an eyebrow. 

"You don't have to take off yer jumpers," John suggests.

"Who said anythin' 'bout that? It's bloody cold in here."

John tilts his head. "Ya don't say!" 

"Whatever! How many layers are you wearin'?"

"Two."

"Well fuck, son!" Paul draws back and thrusts a thickly-wrapped arm in John's face. "I'm wearin' _three!"_

"Well, uh, I don't see Geo or Rings complainin'!" John tries. "An' they're probably naked for all we know-" 

~

George and Ringo sit huddled in blanket darkness, not naked, sharing earbuds and a movie on Ringo's phone. The bed is warm enough for them to be sockless (Ringo's trousers even end just below his knees, _scandalous_ ), so their ankles click.

Ringo's head rests on George's shoulder- and an hour later George's still not sure what the movie is about.

"Hey," Ringo whispers. "Is your hand cold?"

"Not really. Why?"

"Can I still hold it?"

George slips his hand into Ringo's.  _Move over, John-and-Paul._

 _"Your_ hand's cold," George remarks.

"Okay, okay-" the rings are off, sharpish, and Ringo moves back into the hold. "Better?"

"Mmm. Yes."

Suddenly- **daylight.** The blanket whips off like wind. George and Ringo jump.

"WHAT THE FUCK-"

" 'ello, lovebirds," John grins dementedly. His feet spread apart on the bed in a _fuckin'_ fantastic look-up view of his groin. And by the looks of it, it was clearly all Paul's fault.

"The fuck d'you want?" says Ringo, retrieving his phone. 

John ignores him. "Macca! Get in here!"

"Get _out,"_ George hisses. "We're busy. We don't do this to _you_ , do we?"

Paul enters the room. "Hah! I told you they weren't naked!"

Ringo blinks. "Wait, what-"

"Alright then!" John says. "Maybe we _should_ turn the heater on-"

"Oh, thank Lord," George whispers.

"NOT," John declares, and flops right onto the bed. "The people outside probably have it worse."

"The hell are you yappin' about?" 

"Temperatures," John and Paul say simultaneously. "Jinx! OWE ME A COKE-"

"Somebody please tell me what the _fuck's_ goin' on!" Ringo begs. 

"I say," John begins, and then pauses for dramatics. "We play a game."

Paul facepalms. George and Ringo throw their arms around each other simultaneously.

"No."

" 's not Truth or Dare, Geo."

 _"No,"_ says Ringo. 

"I bet that we all can stay in this here flat for a week without leavin'."

"A week?" Paul tilts his head. " 's a little long if we're  _all_ stayin' in, ain't it?"

"Somethin' loose in yer head, Johnny?" Ringo chuckles. "What if we get out before the week's up?"

"I bet that we all can stay in this here flat for a week without leavin'-" John says jovially "-or else."

"Is that a fucking threat?" George hisses. 

"Or else what?" Paul challenges, hands on hips. 

"Let's get to that later," John grins.

George wraps himself tighter around Ringo. "Why are you even-"

"To make a point about the luxury we have by havin' a humble London home in this freezin' January dawn," says John. "It may be cold, but outside's _colder._  So we're stayin' in."

"And we can't leave at _all?"_ Ringo asks in disbelief.

"Nuh-uh."

Ringo squeezes George's shoulder.

"Whatever," Paul says on his way out. " 's not like I was plannin' to go out."


	2. paul is overly optimistic

Ringo chuckles nervously as John follows Paul out of their room. George lays down with a thump, eyes shut. 

"This is a fuckin' madhouse."

Ringo quietens. George opens his eyes. Ringo's looking out their window, and then he turns to look at him. Indifferent.

"Did you want to go somewhere?"

"Well, no, but..." George reaches for the blanket. "Why do we always have to... give in?"

"Give in?"

"To John and Paul," he sighs. "What d'you think would happen if we suddenly told _them_  they were under house arrest?"

"I don't even wanna think 'bout that."

 _"Exactly._  Those two have no regard for anything else,"George shifts his head to Ringo's hip. Then he startles. "Shit, what if-"

"Hm?"

"What if we become like them?"

"Whaddaya mean?"

"What if we go nuts? Or start screamin' at each other about, uh, loo roll or toast or whatever bollocks that won't really matter? And did I mention going totally _nutty?"_

Ringo's ice-eyes stare. They blink once, and then he snorts in laughter.

"What?" George asks.

"Nonono," Ringo splutters as he makes to lay down. "Just had a thought of you yellin' at me 'bout toast."

George rolls his eyes. A glimpse of the wintry-sky window fills him with dread. Ringo interrupts with a kiss to his forehead.

"Just so you know," he whispers, "I'd still fancy you. Even if you went nuts and yelled at me 'bout toast."

George can't help the laugh that comes out. 

~

John presses his head into the wall with a sigh. The bet was fun, no? Yes. 

But only in theory. He swears that George flashed his vampire chompers at some point. He walks over to his own room, quick as a wink. Paul's sitting crossed-legged at the vanity, scrolling through his phone. 

"So the bet's really on, eh?" Paul says, not looking up. 

John's sigh speaks for itself. He drops face-down on their bed. Paul's phone clicks shut.

"What'sa matter?"

"D'you think I'm nuts?"

"Of fuckin' course."

John's reply is half-groaned, half-snickered. A dip in the bed, and Paul kisses the side of his head. John turns around slowly.

"Now what's the matter?" Paul whispers. There's more patience in his tone than John deserves, really, and it sinks into his brain like gin sediment. Paul and his pretty face are a curse upon the threshold of his heart. 

"I... shouldn't have done that."

"Maybe," Paul says with a playful tongue _click_ , that bastard. "I was beginnin' to think it sounded fun."

John's head lifts off the bed. "Wait, what?"

"It sounds fun," Paul repeats. "Maybe we'll get to- y'know, _really_ bond, and since Geo an' Rings have _finally_ decided to date-"

"Bond?" John guffaws. "Geo and Rings would bond us _up_ and throw us off a _bridge,_ more like, haven't ya seen their faces?"

"At least they'd be doing it together." 

"Jesus, Macca." 

"What?" Paul bats his eyelashes cheekily. "I thought we were shippin' them."

 


	3. paul cries about makeup

George wipes the kitchen windowsill and sets down a potted succulent. The light's good at last and no longer clouded by frost. The street below is serenely empty, and he pushes it open for the mild January chill. 

He scoffs. It's not that cold- the wind doesn't even put out his cig. For a bit, he's perfectly content in sitting there to enjoy the breeze. 

Then there is a howl that rips through the kitchen that nearly sends him swallowing the cig. 

_"FUCKING SON OF A fUCK-"_

It's Paul. Oh joy. George grabs the ashtray under his stool, adjusts his succulent, and crosses to Paul's room in three stomps.

"What the _fuck_ -" he pokes his head through the door "-are you _fuckin' screamin' about?"_

Paul is curled up at the vanity, face hidden in hands and knees. John's nowhere in sight. 

A jab of concern. "Paul, are you alright-"

"I'M OUT OF MASCARA!"

George blinks. He draws back from the doorframe. "Okaaaaaaay."

"GET OUT! I'M HIDEOUS!"

"It can't be that bad..." George takes a tentative step in. "Let's have a look."

Paul turns. George simply exhales- the mascara is smudgy, but other than that it's  _fine_. Birds on Tumblr would kill to have his look. 

 _"Look,"_  Paul says shakily, holding up an  _unbelievably tiny,_  equally smudgy-black vial. "It's fuckin' dried. It's fuckin' dried  _and I LOOK LIKE THIS!"_

"Maybe we should, um, get that off first," George gestures to his own eyes. "Where're your tissues?"

"No! If I take this off, my face is gunna be naked!"

"That's... the point?"

"Are you fuckin' _nuts?!_  I can't be seen without makeup!" 

"Why? It's just the four of us here. An' we've all seen you without makeup-"

"AND Y'ALL KNOW I LOOK FUCKIN' HIDEOUS WITHOUT IT!"

"That's not true-"

Paul cuts him off with an irritatingly high whine. 

"Okay-" George scratches the back of his neck. "So what now?"

Paul suddenly stops and jolts up. "Lend me yours."

George blinks. "What?"

"Lend me  _your_  mascara! It's okay if it's the cheapie minimart stuff, I lived on that all through high school-"

"I don't use mascara!" 

 _"Bullshit,"_  Paul whispers, and grabs George's chin. "You’re fuckin' sayin' that _those_ are  _natural?"_

George blinks again. "Um,  _yes!"_

_"HOW?!"_

"I dunno!" 

"You sure you don't do _anything_ to them?" Paul turns George's face this way and that. "Like, d'you use a curler or a cream or-"

"I don't even touch these!" 

"Listen, Geo," Paul says seriously. "We're gonna be stuck in here for a  _week._ I am fuckin'  _out_ of mascara and I can't leave-"

" _I_  can't leave either!"

"Lemme finish!" Paul brings a finger to George's lips. "I know I get on yer nerves and all, but please, as a friend, I'm jus' askin' you to help me."

A pause. "D'you want me to sneak out?"

Paul blinks. "No."

"Then?"

Another pause. "You _sure_  your lashes are natural?" 

"Son of a  _fuck_ ," George pulls himself out of Paul's grip. "Why don't you just order it online?"

"hOW DARE YOU??" Paul gasps, nearly breaking glass. "D'you know how fuckin' troublesome online shopping is??"

"Um."

"There's logging onto the comp, finding a brand, settin' up the credit card, browsin' the catalog, an'  _then_  there's the fuckin'  _extra_  cost of shippin' and _tax-"_

"Okay, okay!" George raises his hands in surrender. "I get it! But," he adds quickly, "I- I really am all natural."

"Lucky bastard."

"Thanks."

"Give us a hug?" Paul opens his arms. " 'm sorry I was screaming."

George is surprised, but hugs Paul anyway. Paul squeezes him menacingly at the waist.

~

Ringo finds John curled up in the storeroom (a broom closet ridden with Mimi-sent junk and who-knows-what), laptop and glass of wine next to him. 

"There you are!" 

"Hey," John takes a casual sip of his wine. "What brings you here?"

"Everyone thought you left," says Ringo. "Despite the, uh, bet. Is that actually on?"

"Mmm." A hearty sip.

"What're you doing?"

"None of yer business."

"Paul's screamin' blue murder," Ringo says, shoving the heavy door aside. "I think you should check on him."

"Was it 'bout me leavin' the seat up? 'cause then you can tell him to grab it there an' put it down, easy peasy-"

"He's out of makeup."

John closes his laptop. _"No."_

Ringo nods.

"Okay, fuck."

"Yeah, _fuck!"_  says Ringo dramatically. "Can't you just let Paul get his mascara?"

"I'd be callin' off the bet! A man never goes back on a bet!" 

"Jesus Christ, John."

"What?" John chuckles uneasily. "'m sure you'd say the same if you were me. Wouldn't ya?"

Ringo stares at him beseechingly, arms drooped to the sides. John sighs, grabbing his wine and laptop.

"I'll talk to Macca."

"And you'll call the bet off?" 

"Don't push it, Starkey," he chuckles, suddenly wary of how quiet the flat is. "Or else," he adds, an afterthought. Ringo gulps.

"Or else... what?"

"Let's get back to that later," he smiles at Ringo, and takes cautious steps to his room.

~

George inhales deeply and digs through his dresser, calm as the breeze outside. Clothes scatter on the floor, socks get separated.

He lets out a yelp when the room door creaks open. Lightning flashes and Ringo startles. George nearly clips his own fingers on the closing drawer. 

"Uh," Ringo tries, scanning the shirt-covered floor. "What'd I miss?"

George looks away. The window's shut, but it's cold. "Nothing."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," George mumbles. His fingers start panicking and reaching for another drawer. The hollow in his stomach expands when he inhales again.

Ringo touches his shoulder. 

"I said I'm okay."

"You don't look okay. What're you searchin' for?"

"I had a pack- of cigs-" George surprises himself with his own raspy tone "-but it's gone. And that was my last."

"Didja check the kitchen?"

 _"Yes._ Everywhere," George chews his lip. "Hey, d'you mind- would you mind if I bum a smoke off you? Please?"

It drips with neediness. Ringo's ice-eyes dart to the floor. "Sorry. I- I'm also out."

"Oh. Oh, _fuck,_ " George wipes at his mouth fiercely, before moving to his face. Ringo grabs his wrists.

"Hey, hey- when was your last one?"

"After the movie."

"Wow, okay," Ringo remarks. "Where'd you put the pack? Before?”

"Um. My pockets. Must've fallen out, right?"

"I'll go find it."

 _"I_ didn't find it," George says sharply. "How're _you_ gonna find it?"

"Geo, I'll be back before you can say 'lousy bet'."

"Lousy bet."

"Hah," Ringo rubs George's knuckles. "Right."


	4. george eats crisps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oNCE again this is spiraling out of control. my bad.

John braces his laptop to his chest, but his room is dark and empty. And _neat-_ unsettlingly neat. 

"Macca," John calls, and sets the laptop on the desk. Ribbons of water patter the window and make odd shadows on the floor. John's eyes follow them until he sees the glow of light under the bathroom door. His heart does a slut drop. If there was anyone who rivaled and utterly destroyed his flair for drama, it was Paul. He's yet to decide if he loves or hates it. 

He knocks on the door. "Macca?"

A pause. Then there's a slosh. "It's unlocked-"

John kicks the door open. His jaw drops: Paul's sitting in a bubble bath, eyes very hooded, a lone cig dangling from his fingers. Various scented candles flicker on the tub rim. It takes a full moment for Paul to startle from the door slamming into the wall.

"Jesus _fuck,_ John," he whispers, before slipping just the _slightest_ out of the foam, bare shoulders galore. John only spares it a glance before fixating on Paul's eyes- no, that ink-black mascara smudge  _mask_ around Paul's eyes. 

"What the blazes happened to you?" John asks, unsure if he's scared or turned on.   

"I cried," Paul's lips quiver, and then he bursts into laughter when John rushes closer. 

"Jus' teasing. I was napping," he says coolly, and lifts the cig to his mouth. "But I forgot I still had makeup on."

"Oh," replies John, pulling his shirt over his boner. "And... _that_ happened?"

Paul nods. 

"Uh, okay... why don't you just wash it off?" 

Paul rolls his eyes. He moves to the nearest candle and lights the cig. "I like it," he says matter-of-factly. "Makes me look dangerous, no?"

"Yeah," John mutters, pulling his shirt even lower. "Like, uh- yeah."

Paul smiles through a puff of smoke. John marvels at how his legs are still holding him up. "I thought you were cuttin' down on those."

"I am," says Paul. "My first stick this year."

"Where'd you get it?" John tries. "Just curious."

Paul simply smiles again. Water sluices down bare knees that move into view above the surface.

"You wanna share?"

~

George pulls blankets over his head. He slides his feet under covers and kicks them off seconds later, and shifts his head to a new corner of the bed. It's so dark it might be night, and he is fucking hungry as fuck, and _wHERE ARE THE FUCKIN' CIGS?!?!?_ Their flat wasn't _that_ big anyways.

The blankets are pulled off his head. Ringo's nose and ice-eyes come into view. It's even darker. 

"Couldn't find it," he says. " 'm sorry."

"I told you," says George. A snap of guilt hits him. "It's okay."

Ringo climbs into bed and opens his arms. "D'you want to..."

George tangles himself in Ringo. The hollow in his stomach grows. They lie for a bit, just lay there, and if George turned over he'd have Ringo on his ribs, nose in the center of his neck. It's tempting, really, but he doesn't dare. Ringo closes his eyes, true serene beauty. 

"I'm hungry," George says after ages of contemplation. 

"Oh?" Ringo lifts his head sleepily. "For smokes?"

"Yeah, but- but I meant food." George sidles himself closer. "Are they cooking? John an' Paul, I mean... are they cookin' anything?"

"Nope. Kitchen's empty."

"I wanna eat."

"Okay," says Ringo. "We'll get somethin' to eat."

The kitchen floor is icy. George lets out a small shriek when he spies the little succulent just in front of the still-open freezing as _fuck_  window, and immediately rescues it. Ringo opens a bag of crisps and sends George jumping a foot out of his skin.

He eats one and holds out the bag. George, cradling the pot, stares. 

"Sour cream."

George reaches out, and his fingers snatch the entire bag. He tips the crisps down his throat, and crunching echoes through the dark. Ringo backs up on the counter.

"Whoa, easy-“

George mumbles an apology. The crisps are dry as a desert and he can't believe he's clogging his arteries for these, but it's _there._  He turns the bag over and shakes oily golden splinter-residue into his palm.

"Um, right... d'you want me to hold that for you?"

Ringo points to the succulent, almost buried in George's armpit. George moves forward. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (feedback would be lovely.)


	5. ringo gets sciencey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mclennon-starrison indeed.

"...goddamnit Macca, I can't feel me legs."

"Excuse you! I don't think I can sit."

"No, I meant that it was fuckin' _freezin'_ in your tub- wait, really?"

 _"Yeah,_ really!"

John chuckles. His fingers brush against Paul's waist and stay, atop fluffy bathrobe. 

"D'you wanna... round two?"

A scoff. "Yes." Paul kisses his cheek. "But dinner first."

"Could be _supper_ first," John pouts. "Lookit all this fuckin' dark."

"Dinner first," repeats Paul. "We gotta get Geo and Rings, too-"

"Christ, it's fuckin' _dark,"_ John grunts, hand groping for the wall switch. "An' we _can_ afford the lights, Macca, jus' letting you know-"

The lights click on. John and Paul come face to face with George and Ringo standing behind the counter, eyes wide and greasy fingers. Snack bags litter the countertop. Their most awkward staring contest yet kicks off.

Paul's eyes widen, too. "Um."

George mutters something frantic with a mouth full of biscuits. Ringo, glass of water in hand, looks at George, then at them.

"Hey, you two," John tries. "Is that... dinner?"

"Uh-"

"Swallow, swallow," says Ringo, patting George on the back. "No, it's just... jus' a snack."

John's eyes count the number of open bags on the counter. "Sure."

"You shouldn't be havin' snacks for dinner!" Paul tuts, smacking them both in the shoulders. "Clear this stuff, I'll cook us all something-"

George and Ringo lunge at the counter, grabbing bags left and right. Ringo's water spills and drips off the countertop. 

"And that too!"

"Sorry!" 

"Gross," John remarks, and flings a flattened McVities box at George's head.

"Hey John," says Ringo, soaking up his spill. "You have something on your face."

John blinks. He puts his phone in selfie mode, and there it is on the tip of his nose- 

a dark, dried smear of mascara.

~

As Paul gathers cup noodles, George and Ringo return to their room. Like naughty children being punished. 

"I'm older than the both of 'em," Ringo mutters as he shuts their door. 

"Thanks."

Ringo looks up. "What?"

"For, um,  havin' my back," George shifts his weight to one foot. "And for the... John stuff."

"Don't mention it."

"And I'm sorry."

"Oh, Geo, what for?"

A very distinct winter chill sweeps across the room. George's suddenly reminded of his succulent and his hair rises- but then he looks down. Ringo's holding it, cupped in both hands. Ringo's ice-eyes are fixed up on him, soft ice.

"For acting so nuts," George shuts his eyes with his hands. " 'cept I'm _not_ actin'." 

"Hey, it's alright."

"No it's not! Well, yeah, I guess I _do_ feel a little better, but... fuckin' son of a _fuck."_

Ringo lays a hand on his shoulder. "I get it."

George opens one eye. "Get what." 

"Paul and I started cuttin' back last year," Ringo says in a clear tip-toe tone. The succulent goes on his night stand. "Varyin' levels of success every day."

"Okay."

"Every time we wanted to light up, we'd do somethin' else, see. Sometimes we snacked, sometimes we skipped out for a run. And you an' I weren't like this yet, but Paul would find John-"

Ringo looks back up. George nods.

"-and then he'd get some."

A simultaneous snort. 

"Did it work?"

"Yeah," Ringo says, but then he shrugs. Somewhat. "Every now and then he'd get fuck-pissed at John and light one up, but otherwise it was almost all turkey."

" _Cold_ turkey."

"Cold turkey," he nods. "Long story short, we read this thingy online 'bout this thing called dopamine, yeah?"

"I know what that is."

"Yeah, and smokin' opens the, ah,  floodgates of that up there-" Ringo taps George's temple gently "-and then it makes ya happy. Then Paul skims the thing and sees that kissin' _drops_ the entire fuckin'  _dam_ of dopamines and makes ya, uh... y'know, feel happier. Ya feel extra nice and- yeah."

George's eyes are fully open now- at least he hopes so. He searches Ringo's face. His ice-eyes are moving slightly too. The thing's mutual.

"Nice," George repeats.

"Yeah," Ringo says, tongue swiping over his lip. It's so quick, but it's- _gaaaaaaahhh-_

_"So."_

"So."

"Mmm."

"Okay," Ringo shoots the corners of the dark room a quick glance. "So yeah, there _are_ good ways of cuttin' down-"

 _"Oh for_ fuck's _sake,"_ George whimpers, and grabs Ringo's shoulders. _"Fuckin'_ kiss _me."_

"Oh, thank god."


	6. john-paul-george-ringo eat dinner

Paul's tongue clicks over the whistle of boiling water, crazily fitting with that mascara mask. John wets a wad of kitchen roll and scrubs at his nose. He'd seen nearly all of Paul's makeup mishaps, but _this is an outlier_ , he tells himself, because _he hasn't taken care of this one._ Yet.

Either that, or it was because he was fucking nuts as fuck (and had barred three innocent lads from frolicking in London's January shit). _This_ lad by the fire just liked making up a pretty face- but it was pretty _without_ the makeup, too, and sets him wondering about Paul's natural state. 

"Oh darling," Paul turns, small smile across said pretty face. "Don't look at me like that."

"What?" John startles. "Like- like what?"

"Like... _that,"_ Paul shrugs. " 'm not miffed or anything."

John turns his gaze to the licks of flames on the stove. His blood swoops. "But your makeup."

"Why? Is it gross-lookin' now?"

"Oh- oh _no,_ it's lovely, but... uh, it's..." he draws an air circle around his own face. "It's kinda..."

"I'll take it off before bed," Paul sighs, but not upsettingly. It's as innocent as a honey-coat trap, and John's stepped right into it. 

"Okay."

The bet sticks itself through his limbs. Then out of fucking _nowhere_  comes a sQUEAAAAAAAAAK-

~

"Is this okay?"

 _"Yes,_ it's _fuckin'_ okay!" 

 _"Alright,_ Geo, I jus' don't ya to be uncomfy-"

Their lips meet again. Ringo's still fumbling with his hands, but George prefers to think that it's a caress. He slides his hand into Ringo's hair, and then their bed lets out the _ungodliest_  fucking squeak ever to be squawked in the history of falling into bed with a squeak. 

"Son of a-"

"Oh fuck, sorry-" 

Ringo looks downwards at George's face, hands on either side of his head. George's toes nearly touch the floor from where both his legs are hanging, open just snugly enough for Ringo's waist. 

 _"Finally!"_ George whispers. He captures Ringo's lips in one upward surge, digs fingers into his back and tries not to think about his legs going numb. Because they were.

But Ringo's kissing back, holding tightly.

"Is it workin'?" He chuckles, moving- just the _slightest_ \- away. 

'What's workin'?" George murmurs, burrowing his nose next to Ringo's. "Thought you just liked me an' all-"

"That, I do _._ " Ringo's hands cup his face, a gentle kiss to end all kisses. George lifts one leg, foot on the edge of their bed, ankle against hipbone,  _there we go, that's it-_

Light floods the room. "Oi, noodles are done-"

George screeches so loud and John gASPS so big they're not sure which causes Ringo to fall off the bed.

 _"The_ fuck's _goin' on in there?"_ Paul yells from outside. 

 _"Nothin', Princess!"_ John yells back, muffling snorts in his hand. "Oh my _god,_ you two!"

"Ow," says Ringo.

George leans over to help him up. "There's a thing called knocking," he seethes embarrassedly.

"I _did_ knock!" John nods. "But nobody answered. My altruist heart and I _had_ to get into action, y'see."

Ringo, now standing, rolls his eyes. "Right."

 _"I'm gonna eat all your fuckin' noodles!"_ Paul yells again. John rolls his eyes.

"C'mon, 's not nice to keep a lady waitin'-"

George scoffs. He pushes himself off the bed and promptly falls to the floor. 

~

Dinner is profoundly tense. George and Ringo stare at Paul's mascara mask, forks unmoving in their hands. Paul, delicately eating soup, blinks in surprise at their faces. 

"Dig in, you two," he says. _"I_ made it."

"Thank the Lord," George mutters, giving John a most fleeting glance of contempt. John shows both palms in surrender. 

"Alright," says Ringo. "So, uh... that's some weather we're havin', ain't it-"

"Yeah," Paul replies sharply. "Some weather."

Ringo and even George, more stone-faced than usual, recoil a bit. A Macca outburst on the horizon. John reaches for his mug and takes a long sip- and Ringo's right and George's left are aligned a little too perfectly under that breadth of table.

"Cold today, and then it gets extra cold tomorrow," Paul says, twirling his fork. "I'll  _bet."_

"Same," Ringo nods quickly. "Hey, uh, John? Can I get-"

"Yes, you _should_ use lube."

George drops his fork. Paul's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

"Wha-? No, I- can I get you to pass me the salt-"

"Holy _shit,"_ Paul’s grin escapes.

"Oh, okay!" John smiles. "Here ya go, Ritch-"

John sets the salt shaker right in front of Ringo's bowl and relishes in the flash pink that rises in his face. George, on the other hand, is suddenly very interested in his noodle soup. Paul forgets to look unhappy for a bit, which helps John's heart a great deal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my apologies if the story's feeling a little dragged out. i'm going for a mood-and emotions-roulette sorta thing.
> 
> edit: hello i realise the term i'm looking for is "character-driven"


	7. john gets fucked (by insecurity)

George and Ringo polish off their noodles sharpish, eyes to the floor. John and Paul are still openly giggling when they get up to dump their dishes, and Paul nearly falls out of his chair when George grabs Ringo's wrist and whisks him behind a door-slam. 

"Holy _fuck,_ they're gonna-"

 _"Shhhhhh!_  Wait for it, wait for it..."

A lock click sounds through the flat. John and Paul throw their hands up in  _WOOOOOOOOOOOOO, HOT DAMN!_

"Oh, I'm so proud of them," Paul (fake) cries, hand on his heart. Then, there's another sQUEAAAAAAAAAK.

Paul gasps as if he's been suddenly kissed. "DID YOU HEAR THAT?!?!"

~

"Man, we have  _got_  to get that fixed."

"Ya don't say," George groans from where he's collapsed face-first on their bed. 

"I have- I've no idea why John said that," says Ringo. His hand rests on the centre of George's back. 

George turns to look at him. "Okay," Ringo shrugs, "I guess he picked up on me goin' all bonkers about you an' all, but-"

"Bonkers?" George chuckles.

"Mmm. Yeah." Ringo sits, one leg tucked in. "Pretty bonkers."

"I like the sound of that..."

Ringo smiles, crossing his legs again. George shifts his head and glimpses Ringo's toes, sockless like his, curled just so. But his knees are now hidden under long pants, final blow from their heater-less madhouse of a flat. Heater-less, smokeless and chock-full of annoying housemates madhouse of a flat. 

Except for Ringo, of course.

"So," George murmurs, and finds Ringo's hand. "Where were we?"

~

Paul's good mood doesn't last long. When John returns to their room he's sitting stock-still at the vanity, eyes still hooded- and blackened- by mascara mask. He rests his cheek in his hand, and clutches a cotton pad in the other. 

He holds his breath as he slides in, but Paul catches him in the mirror. 

"Hey."

"Sup," John replies, and wills the floor to swallow him. 

"You goin' to bed?"

"Not yet."

"Good. I'll need the light."

John nods and reaches out to grab his laptop. He grabs fistfuls after fistfuls of air as Paul runs a finger over various bottles of god-knows-what. Then he swivels around with a gasp and John nearly falls over.

"Hey," Paul says brightly, "Remember when you used to comb my hair?"

"Uh, yeah." John says, gathering himself to lean against the desk. "Yeah. What about it?"

"I'm not sure, really. I just remembered all of a sudden..." Paul crosses one perfect leg over the other. " 's been a while since you did that."

"Oh. So d'you want me to?"

Paul smiles and produces a comb. John wipes his hands quick and tries not to focus on the mirror- especially Paul's eyes. He closes them and presses the cotton pad to his left eye, gentle as a breeze.

John's breath hitches. Paul's right eye snaps open in the reflection. 

"What is it?"

"I jus' realised it's the first time you're removing this-" John gabbles. "Removin' your mascara-"

"What? No. I'm always makeup-free before bed," says Paul. "Mascara-free too."

"Wait, what?"

"Oh darling, you can't possibly think I keep all  _this_ on while I sleep," Paul says sarcastically. "This literally _is_ the result of me sleepin' without removing it."

"Okaaaaaaay."

A chuckle. Thank god. "You're so cute."

John allows himself a small smile- a smirk would trigger the Macca outburst, no doubt, a scientifically-tested-with-proof fact- and focuses back on his own hands. 

"So you mean... you're all natural. Every night."

"Of course."

"I couldn't spot the difference."

"You couldn't?"

"Yep! That's right!" John laughs. "Worst husband from London to Liddypool, aren't I?"

Paul tosses the cotton pad at the mirror. John darts out of the way as he turns his head just so. 

"Don't you speak of my husband like that."

"Ugh. Fine," John rolls his eyes. "Turn around, let's finish this-"

Paul snaps his head back to face the mirror, and pouts. His left eye is completely clean, mascara mask half gone, but his lashes are still as long and delightful as ever. Perhaps even _more_ than ever.

John squints at their reflection. "See?" he points. "You're still so beautiful! What sorcery is this?"

"All natural," Paul says, inching upwards to smile against John's cheek. "Enjoy it while it lasts." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much more mclennon than originally planned, but who cares. 
> 
> (starrison my love,,,, i'm so sorry)
> 
> leave reviews!


	8. george is very into ringo

"...Geo?"

"Huh?"

"Can't sleep?"

"Wha- oh shit, did I wake you?"

"Pretty much," Ringo yawns. "You hungry?"

"Um. Yeah, but-" George cuts himself off with a groan. "I refuse to believe my whole _pack_ of smokes jus' poofed like that. Too much to ask?"

His eyes burn. It's raining again.

"Nope. Perfectly normal."

"Oh. Okay."

Ringo nods. "I'm gonna sneak out."

George pulls back, eyes to ice-eyes. "Wait, really?"

"Maaaaaaybe." 

"But...  _or else,"_  George says, sitting up, voice dropping to a hush.

"Or else what?" Ringo chuckles. "John jus' thinks he's scary."

"Why the hell are you sneakin' out?"

"Obvious, ain't it? I'm gonna get us a pack of cigs," he pulls himself up. "I'll be quick."

"But you'll lose the bet."

"Fuck the bet."

"Not now." George scrambles closer. His mouth is dry as bone. " 's just cigs."

"Who're you and what've you done with my Geo?" Ringo chuckles. "I'll be fine. 's jus' cigs, you said."

"Uh, no, it's... raining.”

Ringo turns to the window. "I'll wear a coat."

"Nonono, wait. I don't need- I don't need them." George whispers quickly, surprising himself. Ringo being stuck in the freeze outside jabs him in the stomach. "It's cold everywhere, ya get me? I don't want you to catch a chill or anythin'-"

"Oh Geo, I'll be fine. 'm not cold."

 _"I_  am."

The drops of rain against the window speed up. Ringo yanks the blanket off George's knees.

"Hey! What-"

"How many layers are ya wearing?" Ringo holds the blanket's ends over his shoulders like a cape. His ice-eyes are big, bright, and George's heart skips a beat for each of them.

"Um, one?"

"Tsk! Paul's wearin' three."

"Okaaaaaay?"

"Wait, _noooo,"_ Ringo laughs. He shifts himself in front, on all fours. "That came out wrong- one layer's barely enough; that's what I'm sayin'."

"Oh. Okay," George crosses his legs to make room. Ringo's eyes widen again. 

"Nonono don't do that!" he cries, and the blanket falls over his back. "Put yer legs out, _please-"_

George stretches his legs out, and his feet disappear in the shadow where Ringo and his blanket are looming over the bed. Then it hits him.

"Want me to lie down?"

"Do you want to?"

"No complaints there."

Ringo chuckles. "I'll be with you in ten," he says, and pulls the blanket over his head. 

"Ten, nine, eight-"

"Actually, make that, uh, twenty," Ringo's voice sounds out, shapes of limbs flailing under the blanket. "My zipper's stuck."

George chuckles.

~

Paul spends eons turning his head this way and that in front of the vanity, despite not even having on basic face powder. 

"Baby," John tries softening his voice, "I'm gettin' lonely."

"Just a moment."

"You and yer pretty mug have had _plenty_ of moments," says John. "How about givin' others a go?"

Paul- or really, his reflection- sticks his tongue out.

"My love, you _do_ know you're still beautiful." 

"I know."

"An' _I_ think you're beautiful- oh. That's great. Because you are. Makeup's jus' a bonus," says John. "In my book, that is," he adds.

Paul gets up and climbs into bed with a sigh. John stays on his side, unsure if he should move.

"Makeup's a bonus," Paul mumbles, and John launches into a desperate scan of his face for discontent and _this bet is fucking stupid and so are you, I'm moving out with the fuckin' kids-_ then screws up his own face. Paul closes his eyes just then, severing connection. 

John rolls his eyes. The patter of rain fills their room.

"John," Paul whispers in half- sleep, "You can turn the lights off now."

~

A creep of cold seeps a shiver up George's legs and sends him kneeing Ringo in the inner thigh.

"Oh- oh shit, 'm sorry."

"None of that now-" Ringo rasps, hands trailing up George's spine. "I'll live."

George grins. "Promise me we'll still do this. Even after we get cigs again."

"This here is better," Ringo replies, punctuating every word with a kiss. "And I promise. Are ya comfy?"

"Such a gent. Hang on, lemme just- there we go."

"Alright?" Ringo cups George's arse, teasing fingers flicking over the tattoo. The burn between them makes it feel fresh. 

George nods. "Now do it."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Tell me if it's uncomfy."

He inserts one slow finger. George presses himself closer and hisses through a bite of pain.

"Okay _fuck_ , John was right-"

"Holy shit," Ringo laughs, and damn nearly extracts his finger.

"Don't you dare," George warns into Ringo's chest. A hand ruffles through his hair. 

"C'mere- move up-"

George does, knees sinking into the sheets, and Ringo snags a spot that unleashes a toe-curling moan. Sweat goes into the corner of his eye and he has to blink it out, and Ringo's hand comes to his cheek, gently, as if mistaking it for a tear. 


	9. paul makes beans on toast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the late update my spotify dieded on me
> 
> (and wow how'd this turn into mclennon angst? my bad)

John wakes up to Paul's nose pressing against his. 

"Wha-"

"Shhh," Paul puts his hands over John's eyes and closes them shut. "Go back to sleep. I'm just saying g'morning."

"Shouldn't I wake up if its mornin' ?"

"Your morning is different from my morning," Paul states so matter-of-factly that John feels his heart sink a little. "I'll wake you up for breakfast."

"I wanna help with breakfast."

"I'll manage," he whispers, fingers now barely there. John lifts his own head for a kiss and is met with Paul's back, already heading for their door.

~

George turns to his side at the knocking on their door, rolling himself in the blanket. 

The knocks continue. Ringo grumbles something along the lines of _ffffffffffffffffffUGHhhhhhhh_ and pancake-flips himself around so fast his pillow hits the floor. 

"I said breakfast's ready!" Paul says, sounding neither cheery mother hen nor totally miffed. Ringo yells out something in response, and the knocking stops. George unwraps his hands and traces the haze of Ringo's stubble. 

"Oh hey," Ringo yawns. "You sleep alright?"

"Yeah," George nods. He shifts forwards to let their lips meet, slow and snug. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"I love you," George mumbles in between kisses. "I really love you."

"I love you too."

Another kiss, shorter, but Ringo's hands roam over his shoulders. His fingers are still bare from their hand-holding from watching their movie under the covers. 

"Your rings," George points out. 

"Didn't want cold hands." 

"Where'd you put them?"

"Hm? Fancy tryin' them on?" Ringo chuckles. "Just teasing. They're nearby."

"I miss 'em," replies George. "They're just... so _you._  It's in the name, ain't it?"

"You wouldn't miss 'em if I did  _that_  again with them on," Ringo grins loosely. George bursts into a fit of giggles.

"Come on now," Ringo kicks his blankets off. "Best not to start Hurricane Macca-"

"Hurricane _Macca!"_

~

John doesn't go back to sleep. He sits on the toilet and plays rounds of Angry Birds until sunlight peeks through the window near the ceiling. If Paul had come back to wake him, he certainly didn't try looking for him. 

A text message pings just as he clears the level- but it's from George, so he swipes it back up. Another instantly appears in its place, and another, and another, and another, and another-

 

 **Joj:** ay john  

paul made beans on toast 

yours is getting cols

cold

john?

did u disappear again?? 

 

John exits the game with a sigh and switches off his phone. The screen's still cracked and his reflection in it is splintered. His ugly stare is magnified throughout every crack. Right bloody crazy. He snaps his eyes shut, and Paul's dark head, mascara mask and all, appears. 

Paul's eyes _(heavenly hazel peepers, those are)_  cloud over while they're both naked in the tub, brimming pink. He makes sure to splash out the candles before John finds his way in. He pulls Paul too tight to kiss properly, and his own nose disappears in dark smudge-

The door swings open. 

"Occupied!" John yells, and drops his entire phone into the loo. 

" 's unlocked- oh," Ringo, even more gormless than usual, points at John's crotch. "Shit John, isn't that your-"

"Fuck off! Can't ya see I'm usin' it?"

"...with your pants on?"

"Yes," John says, defensiveness rising through the roof. Ringo raises an eyebrow, but backs up. He takes his hands off the doorframe.

"Geo wants to know if he can eat your share. Since you're not comin'."

John snickers. "Who said I'm not comin'?" 

"Uh... Paul, actually. Also Geo-"

"Oh, I am _so_ fuckin' comin'," John jumps to his feet and flushes the toilet in one fell swoop. 


	10. hurricane macca

Paul hums a Supremes number as he produces a head of lettuce from the fridge. George eyes John's untouched plate of food, glass of tea still steaming. 

"So Geo," Paul says, "what happened last night?"

George smirks into his tea. "Ringo an' I did it."

"Did what?" Paul replies unamusedly, back still turned. "I meant what happened to  _you?"_

"Me?"

"Uh-huh," Paul says, grabbing a tea towel. "No offence, but you looked a state yesterday," George gulps down another drink of tea. "What happened?"

"Ran outta cigs, what else? Must've fallen out or somethin'."

"Oh," Paul says simply. "Well I’m sorry, mate."

" 's fine. I have Ritchie."

Paul, at long last, snorts. George turns to look in the direction of their rooms. 

"The hell's takin' them so long?"

"John sleeps heavy," Paul shrugs, polishing a knife. He picks up the lettuce and disappears into the kitchen. "Poor Ringsy. I'll wake him after I'm done," he chuckles. "Guess I'm the only one who's got it, eh?"

"Got what?"

"Y'know, the- hey."

"What?"

"There's no water."

George sets his tea down and heads behind the counter. Paul's beating the tap back and forth, but the spout remains dry.  

"Maybe the pipes froze," George suggests. 

Paul switches the knife to his right hand and opens the cabinet under the sink. "That’s not it."

"Want me to call the plumbers?"

"Daylight robbery," Paul laughs, shifting back up. He bends just so his eye is right under the spout. "I'll figure this out."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Paul says, flicking the tap again. "Go sit down or somethin'."

Then Ringo bURSTS in and collides with the edge of the counter. 

"Holy shit,” says George, as Ringo wheezes: "STOP STOP STOP STOP stOP-"

"Huh? Stop what-"

A loud creak of the tap, and a jet of water bursts right in Paul's face. THEN John stumbles in, a plunger in one hand. "Ritch! Did you- _oh."_

George steadies Ringo, and his eyes go to Paul's frozen back, dark stripes of water streaking across his sleep shirt. Then he turns. 

 _"Oh my FUCKIN’_ GOD _, YOUR FACE!"_  Ringo blurts out. 

Drops of water run down Paul's eyes like tears, and leave whitish tracks smack dab in the middle of his cheeks. Pinkish stuff splotches the side of his lips and there's a  _new_  black eye mask. He looks like a splatter painting. Paul, eyes wild, raises his fingers to his cheek and stares at whatever comes off.

"I thought you were out of mascara," John mutters, frozen. Paul's eyes fix on John, then dart to the plunger.

 _"What's goin' on?"_  George whispers, hands on Ringo's shoulders.

_"Johnny's flushed his entire phone down the loo!”_

George blinks. He looks at Paul, then John, then Ringo and his freaking-out-ice-eyes. 

“Okay, what the actual f—“

"You _what?!”_  Paul shrieks. The knife in his hand suddenly takes on a new sharpness.

"Easy now Princess," John tries, holding his plunger out. "Might wanna, uh, set that down a bit-"

"sHUT THE FUCK UP," seethes Paul. "I can’t believe you, Lennon— you fucking ground us all in this shithole for ONE WEEK and  _THEN_  you fuckin’ CLOG OUR FUCKIN’ PLUMBING?!” 

George bites back a laugh. 

“I didn’t mean to!” says John, holding his plunger like a shield. “It was an accident-“

“Oh, I’ll tell you what the  _real_  accident is,” Paul says in a voice that freezes Ringo and George in one clump on the floor. "Look at this," he motions to the mask. "You wanna know why this happened?"

John furrows his brow. "But I thought you were out of mascara-"

"This is  _eyeliner!"_

"Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaay?"

 _"There's a difference!"_ Paul screams, but drops the knife at last. Ringo lets out such a gasp that he swoons right into George's arms. "The point is! I take all this FUCKIN' time to make myself nice for your sweet arse, and tHIS IS WHAT I GET FOR IT?"

"Paulie, I-"

"I'm not finished! I _know_ we didn't get up to round two last night, but that was cause I was tired! Ya get?"

"Oh, uh, that? Well it's okay-"

"I'm  _still_  not finished!" Paul continues. He takes a deep breath in. "Sometimes. You're such a bastard."

Silence. George's head is about to snap off from turning to stare at John, then at Paul, then at Ringo, who's either aces at pretending to be passed out or actually passed out. He has no way to be sure.

"Well?" Paul asks.

"...you're finished?"

"Yes!"

"Um, alright," John fiddles with the plunger. " 'm sorry."

"Good!"

"Right lads," says John, "as of now, the bet's officially-"

"Waitwaitwaitwaitwait," Paul cuts in. "You can't do that!"

George drops to his knees when Ringo slips out of his grip. John blinks. "Wait, what?"

"I'm _not_ fuckin' losing this bet," Paul smirks. He could pass for that clowny Batman villain. "It's fun. Remember what I said about all of us bonding?"

John gulps.

"What the fuck," George whispers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuckin' 
> 
> (please comment. i need to know if this is good)


	11. paul is doing this on purpose

Ringo's head smacks George in the chin when he jolts awake with ANOTHER gasp.

"Oh good! Gang's all here," Paul remarks so sweetly George's heart speeds up. He sashays to the sink. "Eat your toast, John."

John looks as if he could faint. He drops the plunger, sits, and Paul's knife slices through lettuce.

~

John swallows his toast in one gulp and immediately tries to bail. Paul, entire face still smeared with makeup, tuts.

"Hold yer horses!" He says, and holds a fork of salad right between John's eyes like a weapon. "Won't you give this a taste?"

John looks around the kitchen. George and Ringo have vanished into thin air. Then his eyes fall on Paul. He tilts his pretty head, and John opens his mouth- as a response to the sheer _dangerous_ hotness- but the fork goes in.

"How is it?"

"Wet," John mumbles.

Paul's eyes dart to John's front, where he's sitting with his knees to his chest. His smile turns into a quiet horror-movie giggle which he hides, barely, with his hand. The fork comes out clean.

"You're doin' this on purpose."

"Of course I am," Paul grins, spearing another leaf of lettuce and sauce and whatever-the-fuck. "But then again, so are you."

The fork may as well have gone in John's chest. "If you want me to call the bet off, say so."

Paul raises a perfectly ruined eyebrow. "And suffer the ruin of seeing you win? I'd rather eat my own arse."

"At least you'd have a nice meal."

Paul blinks. His hand goes to his mouth again, but to muffle his snorts.

~

George and Ringo stand with their noses just peeking out behind their bedroom door.

"...the fuck?"

"At least they're not doin' it on the table," George remarks. "Again."

Ringo snickers. He closes the door with his foot.

"What? We eat there!" says George. He shifts from foot to foot. "... you okay?"

"Huh? 'm in one piece, aren't I?"

"You passed out for like two minutes."

"I did?"

 _"Yes,_ and you capped me in the chin, you arse-"

He doesn't finish. The abruptness of silence outside stuns the shit out of him. George blinks twice and opens the door just a crack-

The table's empty. He and Ringo exchange a look.

"You were saying?" Ringo asks.

~

_"Thank you for calling London Plumbers Association. How may we assist you?"_

"Yes, hi, 'm having a bit of an issue with the pipes in my flat."

_"Alright, sir. Can you describe this issue?"_

"My husband flushed his phone down the loo," Paul says in a tone like ice, but grins when John glances at him. "The _entire_ phone-"

"Macca, do we have another plunger?"

"No, we don't!" Paul says sharply before returning to his call. "Pardon?"

_"Have you had any other issues besides the clogged toilet?"_

"The sink's backed up. There was no water when I tried to wash in it, and after that it spat a stream in my- "

John tosses the plunger in the tub. "It's not working!"

"Oi! Don't throw that in _there!"_ Paul yells. "That's been in the _toilet_ for god's sake! Hello? You still there? Sorry, that was jus' him."

_"Is he plunging right now?"_

"Yes. Well, he _was."_

 _"With a sink plunger or a_ proper _toilet plunger?"_

Paul's eyes widen. John grimaces.

"There's... a difference?"

_"Yes, sir."_

"Well I didn't know that!" Paul meets John's eyes and immediately looks away. "We haven't got one."

 _"That's alright, sir,"_ chuckles the voice on the other end. _"That's what we're here for. Now if you'll just give me your address, we'll send someone over."_

John and Paul share a look, and Paul walks out of the bathroom with a huff.

~

Ringo pulls back half the way in and sits up from between George's legs.

"Nooooooo," George whines. "Come back.”

"I'm not goin' anywhere," Ringo chuckles. He drapes a blanket over himself. "Just thought I'd dress myself up."

"If you say so," he murmurs, and pulls Ringo back in. They're face-to-face, one touch away, and George closes his eyes and waits. The kiss doesn't come, and when he opens his eyes again Ringo's face is still hovering over his. 

"Well?"

"I'm thinking if this would be better with our clothes off."

"Oh? Why not?" George teases.

"That's the thing," Ringo says, deadpan. "My balls are already fuckin' _freezing."_

"Are you wearing pants?"

"Yes. But they're not doin' shit."

"Simple, then," George smirks. His hands find Ringo's hips. "Take them off, and _I'll_ do a better job."

Ringo plants a kiss to his chin. George dips his hand in, and-

"Waitaminute," Ringo says suddenly. "John."

"Wha- What about John?"

"We should be using _lube,"_ Ringo's eyes widen. "Oh god, remember how last night we didn't and then-"

"That was _fine,"_   says George. "It was jus'... a little bit."

 _"NooOOOOOOoooOOOOO,"_ Ringo cries, hands over eyes. "We're doin' it wrong! _Pun not intended!"_

"Okay then, d'you have any?"

" _You_ don't have any?" 

"Uh, no-"

Ringo drops backwards on the bed and lets out a groan so loud it rivals the ungodly squeak of their mattress.


	12. john-paul-george-ringo (attempt to) play poker

An hour later George and Ringo sit huddled atop a large folded quilt, arse-naked and sweaty.

"Hey,” George whispers. "Can you feel your legs?"

"Can _you?"_

George stares at his own toes intently. Perhaps half a minute passes before his toes twitch. Ringo sighs in relief.

"What?" George smacks Ringo's shoulder. "You worried? How sweet."

"Yeah well, at least one of us isn't frozen solid-" Ringo shifts himself and drops right over George's stomach, squeezing laughs out of him- "Oh fuck, sorry-"

The door is kicked open. _"Alright,_ listen up-"

George screams. Paul, standing in the doorway, explodes with laughter.

"fUCK OFF," Ringo yells. "Jesus, it's the second time in a row-"

"Oh dear me!" Paul cups his own face in mock surprise. "You two are havin' _sex?!?!?!"_

George rolls his eyes. "What d'you want?"

"Remember how I said," Paul says, eyeliner mask going into full power, "that we were going to bond? So we are."

"Wha- bondage?" Ringo says suddenly.

"No, just B-O-N-D. Like among the four of us," he repeats. Then his voice drops to a whisper. "But if you ever want some _tips_ , I can-"

"The four of us?" George cuts in. "The fuck does John want the four of us to do now?"

Everything pauses. Paul _smiles,_ and George feels Ringo's hands scrabbling for his chest.

"Who said anything 'bout John?"

"Holy shit," Ringo whispers. "You killed him?"

"What? No," Paul laughs, sounding awfully like he has indeed killed him. " 's just that _I'll_ be in charge for a bit now."

"Because you killed him?"

"No!"

"I always thought you _were_ in charge," says George. Paul nods appreciatively.

"What's that supposed to mean?" says Ringo.

"Oh, nothin'," Paul replies cryptically. His face catches in the dim light and it's still clearly caked in ruined, dried makeup. "Anyway, get dressed. We're gonna do something fun."

George groans. "Not strip poker..." 

"I said _I'm_ in charge," Paul corrects. "Regular poker."

"I'm broke," Ringo says quickly. 

"And I'm just wantin' us to play some poker while we wait for the fucking plumber," Paul says dismissively. "So get dressed!"

~

John sits holding the playing cards, chewing his lip to silence. Paul's laugh rings out and jabs him in the neck like a kiss. He tries shuffling the cards and drops them as the lights come on. 

"Oh Jesus," Ringo startles. "How long 'ave you been sittin' there?" John shrugs. 

"What'sa matter? Cat got yer tongue?" 

"Where's Paul?" 

"Your room," George replies.

"Ughhh," John facepalms. "Can't he jus' make up his mind? First he's all _get the cards_ and now he's a no-show."

 Ringo chuckles. "He's real pissed,"

"What? He told you?"

"He _looks_ real pissed," says Ringo. "A bit thick today, ain't it?" And to John's horror Ringo's hand air-circles around his face. "Y'know-"

Then Paul walks in. Everyone stops and stares. 

"I was summoned," he jokes, and stops to stretch out a yawn. "Okay, let's get this on with-"

"Oh my god, your face," Ringo blurts out. Paul throws his head back with a laugh. "You look so nice!"

"You like it?" He takes a seat. "I wasn't sure about all natural, but-"

John wants to put his head on the table and scream. All natural Macca should be _illegal._ Heat drenches him like a wave. 

"You _do_ look nice," George adds. "Why the makeup in the first place?"

"Y'know, I don't really remember!" Paul says innocently. "Scooch over, John."

"Oh, uh, right."

"Thanks! Now if you will."

"Huh?"

"The cards!"

John starts tossing cards out, face-down. Everything's so quiet that he can hear his own heart and it's scaring the shit out of him. He tries to focus, but George and Ringo are sneaking smirks at each other and Paul is smirking to himself. Because he could. He runs out of cards.

"Hey, uh, we're not betting, right?" Ringo says, picking up his deck, and John drops his in view of the whole table.

"Aw!" goes George. "Got some bad ones there, Lennon-"

"Now aren't we clumsy today!" Paul giggles, eyelashes fluttering. "And no, Ritch, there's only _one_ bet goin' on right now- isn’t that right, Johnny?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more to come i swear


	13. ringo looks for sugar

Poker is over within five minutes and Paul launches into some lament about how it’s too easy. John is very interested in the pattern of their table. At some point Ringo slides his foot up George’s leg, and all is good and dandy. 

Paul doesn’t notice. “So that was really nice, wasn’t it!”

“Oh yes,” says Ringo.

“A shame you lucked out so quick,” Paul remarks, reshuffling the deck. “Real shame y’know, you’re usually a decent player, Rings-”

“Yeah, real flatterin’, McCartney. What ‘bout you, Geo? D’ _you_ find me a decent player?”

“Can’t remember,” George smirks. “You’re gonna have to show me again.”

“I gotta go,” John rises from his seat suddenly.

“Go where?” asks Paul. 

“The loo.”

“Clogged,” Paul’s grin doesn’t leave the cards. “Nice try.”

“Fine, fine,” John half-chuckles. “I’ll uh, just put on some socks-”

Paul’s gaze drops. “ _Another_ pair?”

“Well excuse you, triple-layer.”

There’s a knock on the front door as John turns, and Paul smiles wider. He pushes the cards into George’s hands.

~

Their plumber is a fifty-something bloke who wheezes at Paul’s big show of telling him about their pipes. John ducks into the storeroom sharpish with his laptop. He slams open Google and then he freezes.

 _What brand was Paul’s_ fucking _mascara?_

John inhales deeply and tries to recall: itsy bitsy black bottle, gold brush, block-letter gold shit on the bottle, yes. He types exactly that into Google and gets results for lingerie and tarantulas. He deletes _itsy bitsy_ and adds _MASCARA_ at the back.

Finally. Maybelline. _Maybe it’s Macca-line,_ Paul sings some mornings thinking John's asleep. John clicks the first link and the online shop appears on the screen. He selects two vials of mascara, adds them to his cart, and proceeds to checkout.

Then his laptop lets out a low beep that sends his foot right into a cooler.

**_Please log into your store account._ **

**_If you don’t have an account,_ ** **_sign up here! _ **

John kicks the cooler hard and clicks on the link. A long-ass form with unbelievably tiny print fills the screen, followed by another pop-up:

**_By filling in this form you are agreeing to our terms_ _ and conditions- _ **

~

“The _fuck_ was that?”

“The fuck was what?” says Paul, not looking up from his phone.

“That… scream,” says George. “Didn’t you hear it?”

Paul smiles: just barely, but there’s so much in it. “I’ll deal with it later.”

“You minx.”

“Why thank you,” says Paul, dropping his phone in his pocket. “It’s an _art_ , Geo, an art.” He takes a seat. “Say, where’s Ritch?”

“Uh, Ringo?” George calls.

“Kitchen!” comes the reply. “Making ol’ Tom a cuppa!”

George turns back to Paul. He points in the direction of their bathroom.

“Oh, okay,” George fiddles with his hands, still full of cards. “So… how’ve you been? All natural and all…”

“I suppose I’d have to get used to it,” Paul sighs. “Can’t be puttin’ a full face of stuff on when I’m seventy, y’know?”

“Oh yeah? Then how’re ya gonna cover up your wrinklies?”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll get wrinkles.”

 _“Everyone_ gets those,” George teases.

“Well, I’m not... everyone,” Paul retorts, and bursts into chuckles. “But still, _that’s_ why I started cuttin’ down the smokes.”

“Oh?”

“So me an’ Rings read this thingy online. And it says smokin’ speeds up the skin _ageing_ -“ Paul cringes hard “-and then you look a fuckin’ _century_ above yer age! Jesus Christ! I have nightmares ‘bout that.”

“You look perfectly _fine_ , Macca. You do know you’re still beautiful.”

“Y’know, John said that exact thing.”

“Your husband! There we go.”

“Don’t call him that! ‘m still mad at him,” Paul sticks his nose in the air and makes for the kitchen. “Ringo! What’s takin’ so long?”

George rolls his eyes. He leaves the cards. Ringo’s half inside the cabinet’s bottommost shelf.

“Can’t find the sugar.”

“What? Check the fridge,” says Paul.

“Already did,” Ringo grunts as he eases himself out the shelf like a glove. It’s very cute. George smiles into his hand. “Not there.”

“Son of a fuck,” Paul groans. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I- can’t _deal_ right now.”

“Tea’s not gonna sweeten itself,” says Ringo.

" _Ughhhh_ ," Paul struts to the window, and fumbles in his pockets. “Use honey or something.”

Ringo mimes picking George up and dropping him in the cup. George attempts a fake scowl, and pecks Ringo’s nose. Many, many pecks.

Paul scoffs. “You saps.”

“Look who’s talkin’,” George side-eyes him. Ringo snorts.

“Oh yeah?” Paul produces his phone. “Look at the pair of ya! At the rate you’re goin’, someone’s gunna get on their-“

A pack of cigs falls out of his pants.

Paul’s eyes, if they weren’t ridiculously large already, widen. The flap’s slightly bent in the middle, just like the one he’d lost. George stares: the silhouette of Everest is shiny. It flops emptily to the ground like a fish on sand.

  
~

"Geo, love, calm down-"

"I _am_ calm!"

"Then will you _please_ put down my phone?" Paul begs. Ringo stares at him in disbelief. "And, ah, get down from _there,_ too-"

"You stole my fuckin' cigs!"

"I- I didn't mean to!"

"What the _fuck_ ," says George. "How d'you _not_ mean to steal my fuckin' cigs?"

"I didn't _plan_ to steal them!" Paul's eyes follow his phone, swinging dangerously from the tips of George's fingers. “I didn't know it was yer last pack! I was out of mascara, y'see, and I was jus' so, so, miffed-"

"So ya stole my fuckin' cigs!"

"Yeah, but I definitely didn't mean to _finish_ 'em, I thought I left a stick or two!... Um... god, sorry," Paul sniffles, hands to face. A tear goes down his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Drop the act," George says coldly. " _And_ the onion."

Paul lets out a groan. He pulls up his sleeve and an onion half plops out at George's feet. Ringo gasps. 

"Really am sorry though," he adds.

"What was all that cuttin'-down-on-smokes shit, then?" George asks. "I bet ye didn't even do it."

"We really did try," Ringo cuts in.

"Uh, yeah! What he said! But it's not been easy!" Paul chuckles. "Maybe you wanna think of it this way, y'know? By takin' yer ciggies, I was _helping_ youNO DON'T!"

George nabs the falling phone as quick as he lets it go without batting an eye.

"You have a point."

"Of course- course I do," Paul exhales, and fixes his hair.

Ringo rolls his eyes. He turns away and opens the fridge. 


	14. george and ringo eat salad

The plumber is drinking tea in John's seat when he emerges, defeated, from the storeroom.

"...so I go to the old cow's clogged-pipes house, and it's _stuffed_ with cats. I mean it! On the sofa, under the carpet, behind the bloody _doors,_ I tell ya!" He laughs. "And guess what? The whole clog was this _hairball_ , about-" he gestures with his entire hand "- _this_ big."

"Eew!" Paul laughs, and takes a pretty sip from his own mug. "They used the same can?"

"They did!" says the plumber. "Had to call backup. Sewer spray _everywhere_. Unwieldy, it was.”

"Oh haha, I can... imagine," Paul says, catching sight of John at last. "Hey."

"Hey."

"Your husband?" The plumber asks, downing his tea.

Surprisingly, Paul nods. He turns to John. "This here is ol' Tom. He's pulled out yer phone," John then notices the sopping ziplock bag on their table. "Say thank you."

"Thanks, Tom."

"Anytime," A friendly nod. John manages a smile, and keeps it until Paul's paid and tipped the man. "Great tea, too!" he remarks on his way out.

"Thank you again!" Paul sings. Then the door shuts.

"Where've you been?"

"Nowhere," replies John, inspecting the ziplock. A stench snags him right in the nostrils. "Jesus."

"What d'you expect?" sneers Paul. "It's been in the _toilet."_

John extracts the phone with a scrunched nose and holds the home button down. Nothing. He lets out a long sigh.

"Okay. How're the pipes? Is the water workin'?"

"Mm."

"It really was an accident, Macca, 'm telling you."

Paul nods again, already staring at his own phone.

~

George and Ringo crouch under the counter, out of view, Paul’s leftover salad between them. George snatches it up and stuffs his face with it.

“Well,” Ringo tries, “at least we know it didn’t jus’... poof like that.”

George groans.

“Can I try some?”

George spears some more of the salad and offers him the fork. Ringo blinks.

“Well?”

He takes the fork. “That’s, uh, usually code for a kiss.”

“Really.”

“I saw John do it once.”

“What! That’s so… cheesy.”

“I thought you liked cheesy!”

“I like _you_ cheesy,” says George. “Did it work?”

“Paul screamed no and ate his food in the tub.”

George snorts. Ringo polishes off the salad in one bite.

“Yuch. Wet.”

George snorts louder. “You never complained ‘bout that before.”

Ringo smacks him on the knee. George manages to swallow before he full-on giggles into the salad bowl.

“You askin’ for it?”

“I dunno,” George says coyly. “But I’d like that kiss now.”

~

The temperature outside is absolute shit. John cracks the window open and is nearly frozen solid. The entire street is lit up and sludge covers the pavement below him.

John blinks. He reaches for his phone, but remembers the stench. He reaches for his laptop.

**_how many feet are 4 stories_ **

He makes a dash for the linen closet.

~

"Ow. Ow. _Owowowowowowowow-_ "

"oKAY, that's it! It's comin' out!"

"Noooo! I swear I'll _oWWWWWW!_ Be gentle!"

"I'm tryin'!"

"Try _harder!"_

"...was that a pun?"

"No!"

"Okay, okay! Almost there-"

George opens his eyes and rolls off Ringo’s chest.

“...your skin’s fuckin’ dry,” he says after a bit.

“Huh,” replies Ringo. “You have the time?”

George sweeps under his pillow for his phone. It’s a minute past five.

“What the fuck,” says Ringo. “Did we eat lunch?”

"We had salad.”

“ _You_ had salad,” Ringo’s fingers find George’s hipbone and begin to trace. “I had a measly _forkful_ of salad reeked in that awful sauce-“

"I'm sorry," George laughs into the pillow, "You’re gonna feel me up while talking ‘bout salad?”

“Don’t see why not."

~

John spies Paul sulking at the kitchen window. He tiptoes across the tiles and nearly dislodges the entire junk drawer from the chest. It makes a din, but Paul doesn't seem to notice. His fingers tap on the windowsill as John combs through the drawer.

"So," John tries. "What's for dinner?"

Paul doesn't answer.

"Need me to... help with anything? Dear." He adds.

Paul still doesn't answer. John catches sight of the tape measure at last. He grabs it and dashes back to his room. Then he screeches. Ringo, wrapped in a blanket, is ransacking his bathroom. 

"The fuck are you doin'?"

"Borrowing soap," Ringo says quickly.

"Go look in the storeroom!"

"I would, but it's... an emergency."

“The fuck kind of emergency is that?" says John. "Also, that's toothpaste."

"A _goddamn_ emergency," says Ringo, putting down the toothpaste. 

"The hell d'you m- Ringo, are you naked?" 

"No," he clasps the blanket to his throat. 

"Whatever," John strides over to the tub and holds out the bar soap from the dish. "Just give it back later. Oi, take it."

"Thanks."

 John shoos him away.


	15. paul is probably doing this on purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filler fluff
> 
> (dont worry story is coming)

When John returns the tape measure Paul is dicing an onion. John leans slightly to catch a glimpse of the kitchen clock, and is beyond surprised. He drops the tape measure back in its drawer.

"John, can you hand me a spoon?" 

John jumps a foot off the floor. 

"Which one?" 

Paul pulls- oh holy shit, his earbuds- out. "Soup spoon. Big one."

John rips the cutlery drawer from the chest. 

~

"The fuck are we supposed to do with this?" George laughs. 

"I panicked!" Ringo cries, clutching the bar soap in his fist. "I couldn't tell him I was lookin’ for  _that_ stuff! I haven't bought any in so long... the fuck'sit supposed to look like?"

"Well, it's usually a tube."

"That I know! But those two have a fuckin' _ton_ of tubes!" screeches Ringo. "It was all brand names and shit! I don't know that stuff! I grabbed the _toothpaste,_ you know!"

George laughs so hard he wheezes. Ringo tosses the soap on their nightstand with a grumble. 

"Aw, c'mon," says George. "We can just cuddle. Something like that."

A pause. "Do I get to kiss you?"

"Of course."

Ringo goes right in, still-ringless fingers to shoulders and nose under the eye. It's funny if he thinks about it too much. Ringo's hands stay in one place, as if anywhere else is out of the question. George can hear thudding beats of heart, but he's unsure whose it is.

It doesn't matter. He cups Ringo's face and lowers himself to lie back down. Ringo's tongue makes its long-awaited appearance at last, meeting the entrance to his mouth unbelievably tender. 

"Holy shit, I can taste the sauce." 

"What the fuck, Richard."

"Made ya laugh!" Ringo says triumphantly. Then he sighs. “You're cute."

~

After slotting the drawer back in place, Paul makes John get George and Ringo out for dinner. John considers sweet-talking him into letting him set the table instead, but doesn't. Paul's horror-movie face had resurfaced the second he got the drawer fixed. 

Dinner is horror-movie silent. George and Ringo don't even try flirting with each other. Paul's eyes are even more hooded than usual, all the way, till he's done. 

"Remember to wash up," he says as he leaves for their room. The door creaks, but doesn't click. Maybe it's a sign.

"Did you fight?" asks Ringo.

"Course not," John huffs. He takes a huge bite of his food. "Did you return my soap?"

George muffles a fake-sounding cough with his spoon. 

"I did," says Ringo.

"O-kay. Boy, is it _cold_ today! Makes ye almost glad to be stuck in, ain't it?" John stands and makes a dash for the kitchen. He chucks his plate and heads to his room. He bets his guitar that the two of them are giggling, but fuck it. 

No pun intended. 


	16. john gets fucked by insecurity

_Pun still not intended!_ John insists despite the horrible feeling that he is indeed getting fucked. By his own bet.

And Paul- who lies scrolling his phone on their bed. Fully clothed. John looks out the window again and tries to get it together.

“I’m going to sleep,” says Paul. “Can you get the lights?”

John eyes the alarm clock on the vanity. “Already?”

“Mm-mmm,” Paul rolls himself in the covers. “Lights, please.”

The lights click off. “Goodnight then.”

“Night, Lenny.”

~

It isn’t until later that John realises he hadn’t gotten a goodnight kiss. Perhaps it stings a bit, but his heart is buzzing like a whole hive. He stuffs pillows in his side of the covers, puts on a hoodie, and leaves his glasses. Paul lets out a soft snore when he’s putting on his boots. John blows him a kiss and heads for the bathroom, locking the door and tying his laces on the toilet.

The linen- maybe a gift from Mimi that he _maybe_ forgot to write her a thank-you card for. Maybe he would’ve written a _P.S. how about some quid, too_ and would’ve never heard the end of it.

He checks that the boot soles are clean and climbs onto the tub rim. The bathroom window is pulled open and the linen, coiled and bound into soft rope, trails out.

John swallows thickly. The rope swishes flimsily in the breeze- and of course it has to snow _right_ now. He has to squint to see how far the drop is from the ground. The length of linen shrinks considerably when John ties one end to the door handle, and the rest stretches across the tub like a party streamer. He hoists himself onto the sill, hands tight, hair up-

It’s over quick. He sticks the landing, and then collapses against the wall in relief. He makes for the nearest Tesco when his heart has calmed down, and throws his hood up.

Just in case.

~

The Tesco is full of _not_ silence. John grabs vials of mascara and a new package of bar soap for Ringo, _so thoughtful of you,_ and a can of beer to fob George off in case eyebrows were raised. The deal is done. 

 _"I hate online shopping!"_ John sings into the alley when he gets out. Many other Johns sing the phrase back. Perfect alibi. He breathes deeply and helps himself to the beer. 

He really ought to return. What if Paul woke up needing the loo and found it locked? He'd sit and wait. Call his name. Knock on the door. Force it open and then discover him vanished into thin air, but John inhales a lungful of the actual air now, and for the first time, admitting a loss doesn’t seem bad.

There's guilt, yes, but flakes of snow dust everything like sugar. The cold doesn't even seem like its there- then Paul's face comes to mind, almost like a dream.

 _Why?_ he asks, simply. He looks aggravated.

"Why not?"

 _We have four people. Tiny flat._ His eyes close. _You think this is a plan?_

"You liked that plan..."

 

John makes awkward eye contact with some old dame at the exit. He blows a raspberry and takes off down the street. 

 _You know I mean the bet._ It's almost as if it's real. _You ever heard of cabin fever?_

John wishes then he hadn't broken his phone. He'd have to wikipedia that later. He veers off the street and makes it to the first floor of their building. He leans against the wall of mailboxes and waits for Paul's voice to come again. 

"You have cabin fever?"

No reply. John drinks more of the beer and squints at the can. What was in this stuff?  

“Macca,” John whispers. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

The beer can is emptied. He crunches it in his hand and throws it, hard. It strikes- if he's seeing correctly- the neck of a passerby. 

"Oh shit, I'm sorry-" John calls out, rushing over.

"What the fuck."

He freezes. Paul's face, his ACTUAL face, stares back at him. His eyes light up.

"...Macca-"

_"John?!"_

 


	17. mclennon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when she was just!
> 
> SEVENTEEN!
> 
> y'know what i mean! 
> 
>  
> 
> (mclennon never kissed in this entire series?? nooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOooo)

Neither of them speak. John isn't sure whether he wants to laugh at Paul or hug him tight and beg him to love him again. 

"What're you doing here?" says Paul. "Okay, no, I suppose I'd have to answer that, too..."

John thrusts the bag at him. "I went to get you these." 

Paul produces a mascara vial and his eyes brighten. “You shouldn't have."

"Not yer brand?" John chuckles.

"You went back on your own bet."

 _"Course,_ Macca, rub it in-"

"You went back on it for me?"

Fuck. John turns his gaze to the floor. 

"Hey," Paul steps closer. " 'm here too, aren't I? I'm jus' as much a loser as you are."

"You _are_ a loser," John replies. "But I'm also a bastard."

"John-"

 _"You're_ the one who said it."

"Yes," Paul slides John's bag up his arm and reaches for his hand. "But you're _my_ bastard."

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" John's eyes burn. "Are you angry with me or not?"

Paul blinks. "What?"

"All this! All that back home-" John's voice cracks. "You leave your face messy, you take it off, an' then you didn't wake me for breakfast-"

"Not true! I sent Ritchie, didn't I?"

"You said _you'd_ do it!" John mumbles. "Then with the clogged pipes and all... and during Christmas..."

"Oh fuck," Paul chuckles. 

"But I really swear I won't make cookies again!"

Paul's thumb comes up to his eye and swipes, gently. John loses his train of thought.  

"...are you still angry with me?"

"A little," says Paul. "But that never means that I love you any less."

John shuts his eyes. "You don't?"

"Christ, John. I love you so much," Paul whispers in a tone so soft that it breaks his heart. "Either you don't think twice or you overthink."

"That only happens when it's 'bout you."

"I've noticed." Paul kisses his lips. Thoughtful as always, patient as it needs to be. John's fingers go in Paul's hair, and everything's fine.

Paul's eyelashes brush against John's eyelids. "D'you wanna know why _I'm_ out here?"

John nods.

"So. I stole something."

"Really?"

"Not from a shop. From Geo. I threw this wobbly when I ran out of makeup. Then he walks in. We hug, and then I nicked his cigs."

John chuckles.  

"Did he find out?"

"Course he did."

"How was it?"

"Still not as bad as the time we ate his biscuits." Paul shrugs. He pats a free hand to his jacket pocket. "I bought him a replacement."

"More cigs?"

"Nicotine gum actually," says Paul. "Been meaning to try it meself."

"Oh, cool."

~

John and Paul sit against the wall for a while longer. Paul kisses John's face clean and holds his hands to warm him up. They only make to go home when Paul checks his phone clock and John starts getting peckish. 

"How'd you get out?" Paul collects the crushed beer can. "I would've heard you."

"I can show you," says John, eyebrows waggling. "But ye have to promise not to scream."

" 'm more certain I'll scream now."

"Hush," John plants a peck to his nose and takes his hand. They arrive at the wall he’d rappelled down, linen rope still swaying. Paul's mouth falls open. 

"Jesus Christ. What kind of sheet is this?"

"I dunno. From Mimi."

Paul inspects the end of the rope as close as he can get, still holding onto John. "What'd you tie it to? The door?"

"Bingo."

"That drop is so high! Are you okay?"

"In the pink," John smiles. Paul drops the rope and embraces him. John stumbles back, knees unprepared, almost into the pavement. _Who cares._ Better than a smash from falling.

"Mimi would bust her gut if she saw this," says Paul. "And not from laughin'."

"Brilliant! It'll do her wonders."

"Cheeky! I- holy shit."

John stops. "Huh?"

"Geo."

John turns around. Standing perhaps a streetlamp away is George, laughing his arse off.

"What the fuck," says John. 


	18. mclennon pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was so long. i really really hadn't planned it to be like this, but here we are. and before we begin our final chapter:
> 
> a special thank you to the ever-ready @skimlevel, who proofread and uploaded chapters 13-16 for me while i was out sick. really would not have been able to do this without you. you da man.
> 
> and another huge salutation and thank you to the lovely @casafrass, for your continued support and for being such a wonderful person in general. rock on, mate.
> 
>  
> 
> and now, the final chapter of part 3. enjoy!

"You L O S E!" Paul cries out.

"I had an emergency!" George laughs. "What's _your_ excuse?"

"What emergency?"

"Did you have to get soap too?" John asks. Then it dawns on him like a sunrise. _"Waitaminute-"_

The bag slips off Paul's wrist. A lone mascara tube rolls onto the pavement.

"Ha!" George continues. "I knew it!"

"Oh yeah?" Paul tries. "What's in _your_ bag, then?"

"Ringo didn't actually want to borrow _soap!"_ John blurts like its a eureka moment. 

"Wha- what?" goes Paul, bending to pick up the mascara. _"Ringo?"_

"We decided to take your advice," says George, shifting his own bag to the other wrist. "But we haven't got any of our own, so here I am-"

"Oh my god, you bought _lube!"_

"Yes," George sighs. "And I'd appreciate if you kept that from the entire street, _John."_

"You bought lube so you could do it with _Ringo!"_ John wipes at his eyes. "Hold me, Macca. 'm gonna faint from the Starrison-"

"Hold _me!_ " Paul fake swoons. "My shipper heart!"

George sighs again, and mid-eye roll does he realise the fucking sheet  _rope_ cascading from their bathroom window.

"What the hell-"

~

The three of them take the lift back up to their floor. 

"Hey Paul?" George asks. "Did you climb out the window too?"

"No! I couldn't risk somethin' like that!" says Paul. "I slid down the drainpipe."

 _"Which_ drainpipe?"

"Next to the kitchen window."

"But that's so far apart!" John cuts in. "And you're barely wearin' shoes! How the fuck-"

" 'm very flexible," Paul says with a wink. 

The lift comes to a stop. John unhooks the keys from his wallet.

"Careful," George whispers. "Don't wake Ritchie."

"He's asleep?"

"Course he is. Why else would I have snuck out?"

"You're sure?"

"I waited half an hour before bookin' it."

"Well, guess that's it, then," says Paul, hands on hips. "Ringo's won the bet."

"I've won the what?"

Their front door slams open. A neighbour-waking scream echoes through their corridor.

Ringo stands over them all, also clutching a bag. George can't think of any words to say. 

Paul screams. "What the fuckHOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN OUTSIDE?" 

Ringo merely shrugs. He and George exchange a look. "Did we all lose?"

"I guess so."

"Ah. So... _or else?"_ Ringo tries. "What _does_ that mean? You haven't told us."

John lets out a dramatic sigh. It's too cold for this shit. 

"Maybe it's best if we save that for... _never."_

Silence. Then Paul buries his face into John's shoulder. George slumps against the doorway and Ringo drops into George's lap. 

"...fuckin' arsehole," Paul whispers. John kisses his temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! and for the reviews! they are liquid fuel. sloppy, sloppy conclusion, i know...
> 
> as usual, leave a review if you enjoyed! <3 thank you! 
> 
> (psst i have [tumblr.](https://rufusrant.tumblr.com) come say hi)


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